In the Service of the Vast Empire
by Wyl Trykon
Summary: Wyl Trykon, a Kuati former telbun/slave who gained his freedom with the help of the planet's pro-Imperial regime, joins the Vast Empire faction after Palpatine's death, determined to liberate his home from the usurping New Republic. Reviews welcome!
1. Chapter 1: Proving Worthy of the VE

With a final, perfunctory, "Good luck," the trainer – a Petty Officer, judging by the not-quite-memorized rank insignia he bore – brought his very _brief_ briefing to an end, leaving newly-initiated Crewman Wyl Trykon and the other cadets and trainees alone. Instantly, the briefing room was abuzz with the excited whispering of the others, any pretense of proper military decorum dropped with the Petty Officer's exit, but from his seat near the holo-projector, Crewman Trykon held his silence, dispassionately considering the task at hand.

This would be Trykon's first task in the service of the Vast Empire, and his first sortie piloting a starfighter in the Imperial Navy. The significance of the moment gave the thirty year old Kuati expatriate pause.

For his entire life, Wyl had reaped the benefits of living under Imperial rule - the New Order had lifted him from the slavery of the _telbun_ caste on Kuat, and his subsequent rise to wealth and power was buoyed by lucrative government contracts - and yet he had never deigned to give anything back to the Empire (at least, not anything that wasn't automatically deducted from his accounts as tariffs and taxes). _Even after Palpatine's assassination seven years ago_, Wyl thought, _I _still_ did nothing. I just watched the market figures for warship sales more closely_. Like most citizens of Kuat - with their fortunes tied up in the massive ring of orbital shipyards churning out Star Destroyers and frigates - Wyl had been content to wait Civil War out, profiting while the destructive conflict ravaged _other_ star systems. All that changed, though, on the unthinkable, inevitable day when the rebels - _no, the New Republic_, Wyl thought bitterly - brought the war to Kuat itself. The invasion was successful, the Empire was forced to withdraw, and the conquering New Republic reinstated the traditional matriarchal caste system of pre-Imperial Kuat. Wyl had fled, vowing only to return home on the bridge of a Kuati-built Star Destroyer serving the Empire.

That was two years ago. The problem was, of course, that there _wasn't_ any Empire, anymore, only a smattering of warlords and successor states scrabbling for advantage. So, Wyl had studied these post-Imperial factions carefully, rejecting thugs like Zsinj and psychopaths like Ysanne Isard one by one, until he found a faction which embodied the ideals of the New Order: an out-of-the-way faction called the Vast Empire. The Vast Imperials fought for peace, prosperity, and opportunity for all beings, and they did so with honor. Wyl resolved that he would make up for the debts he owed the Galactic Empire of old, by dedicating his life to the service of a new hope for the future: the Vast Empire.

And now, he faced his first mission of that service. It was only a simulator run, of course, so there was no real danger involved, but still, this was a wide open opportunity to distinguish himself – one way or the other.

_Maybe you're not gonna die, today, Wyl_, the new Crewman mused, _but when you climb out of that simulated cockpit you're comin' out on the fast track to combat and command, or you're comin' out a loser_. His brows knit together as he frowned. "Let's try for the former, shall we?" he mumbled to himself.

Ignoring the other trainees, Trykon stood up and strode purposefully over to the desk at the front of the room, picked up the datapad the Petty Officer had left behind, and activated the holographic map again.

The highlighted details blinking on the map hadn't changed, and neither had the mission itself; it was a straightforward training scenario, which offered a simple choice, if not necessarily an easy one. He'd start the mission separated from his squadron in atmo, and would have to choose between two bad options: a direct approach through enemy forces (fighters and anti-air) to rejoin his flight, or a safer, more circuitous route, which would leave his squadron-mates outnumbered and vulnerable while they tried to complete their escort mission of the assault force. Wyl thought back to the initial _telbun_ training of his youth, which had included a master-class on aerial/space combat maneuvers, and the new Crewman ran through the few battles he'd seen in person since then in his mind. _I should be okay; I know a few maneuvers_... But even as he considered getting fancy with his flying, Trykon had an epiphany, and his frown twisted into a rueful grin. _This mission isn't a test of piloting ability_, he thought, shutting down the holo-map and leaving the pad and desk as he'd found them. _It's a test of our priorities. A test of character_.

Wyl's grey-green eyes flitted around the room, taking silent measure of the other trainees. With an effort, he resisted the urge to make snap-judgments about his new comrades. Tearing them down wouldn't actually make him a better pilot, it wouldn't help him complete the mission, and it wouldn't help his chances of making friends here, either. _Focus on Self_, he told himself, repeating the mantra of his school days. _They are testing_ you, _and only you. You know the challenge, so what will you do?_

He glanced at the chronometer on the far wall, and with a sinking feeling realized that he was out of time to answer that question; he was due in the simulator, and the other trainees were already filing out of the briefing room. Unbidden, the thoughtful frown returned to his face, as Trykon joined the others in the short walk to the sim room down the corridor.

_The mission is the priority_, Trykon kept repeating to himself, as he lowered himself into the cramped ball cockpit of the TIE simulator, closed the hatch, and strapped into the seat. _The mission is the priority_. He checked that the machine's presets for a VE-standard Interceptor were keyed in (the Vast Empire had equipped _it's_ TIEs with concussion missile launchers, and deflector shields - changes which reflected the faction's departure from the callous, coldhearted, quantity-over-quality attitude toward fighter pilots which had been so prevalent in the old Imperial Navy), flicked the starter switches for the twin ion engines, and confirmed his comm systems were connected with the control personnel running the exercise: "Raptor Four has two starts and is go." _The mission is the priority_.

"Cleared for launch, Four," came the reply. The cockpit was suddenly filled with the familiar whine of the TIE in flight, and the various screens and indicator lights of the craft flickered to life. A countdown appeared on the simulator's main viewport: Simulation begins in 5, 4… _The mission is the priority_. …3, 2… _But I can't help them complete the mission if I'm dead_. …1…

With a flash, the viewport initialized, and Trykon was screaming through the sky of a verdant world, the distant coastline recognizable from the holo-map in the briefing room. A quick look at the sensor displays confirmed his situation: Trykon's fighter was several kilometers away from the rest of the squadron, and the New Republic's anti-aircraft towers were directly between him and the nearest allied craft, which his sensors ID'ed as one of the dropships he was supposed to be covering. "Great," Wyl muttered into his helmet, and then he keyed his comm unit. "Raptor One, this is Four. I'm on my way back to the engagement area."

"Raptor Four, One. Mind the towers."

Pulling back on the control yoke, Trykon felt the simulated gravity push him back into his seat as the bright blue sky filled the viewport. "I copy, One. I'm going for altitude. Should make me a harder target for 'em."

"One, Two here," an animated voice broke in, "I have new targets! Enemy fleet just hypered in, and ground-based fighters are scrambling. So far, two full flights from the northwest corner of the base."

"Raptors, we've got company," the squadron leader said calmly. "All fighters are to remain in-atmosphere until further notice. Alpha flight, on me. Beta, get ready to back us up if more X-wings launch. Four, get back ASAP. Everybody else, protect the dropships. Go now!"

Trykon leveled out just as the closest anti-aircraft battery fired its first ranging shot in his general direction. The up-scaled blaster bolts went wide by almost a hundred meters, but before he could register his relief, Trykon noticed that four of the enemy signals had separated from the main group, and were heading his way. A sparkling flash in the distance caught his eye: through the viewport, a glint of sunlight reflected off the canopy of the lead X-wing of the flight rising from their base to kill him.

"One, this is Four. I may be detained a bit." Wyl twin-linked his laser canons, shunted power to his forward shields, and adjusted his course to fly more or less due south, the enemy fighters rapidly closing the distance somewhere beyond his port wing.

"I see them, Four. Good luck."

The X-wings were almost in firing range when Trykon swung his Interceptor around to meet them head on. The rebels' sensors wouldn't be affected by his southerly detour, but with the sun now directly behind him, Wyl hoped their visual scanning would be impaired. He centered the lead X-wing in his sights, and fired.

The dual green bolts lanced out from his hungry-looking starfighter, and bit into the durasteel of the incoming X-wing. Half a heartbeat later, before Wyl's brain even had time to recognize his good fortune that the rebel was flying without power to forward shields, an explosion in the snubfighter's midsection marked where his shots had connected with the enemy's arsenal of proton torpedoes, and suddenly he was soaring past a cloud of falling debris, the remainder of the enemy flight already circling around behind him.

Exhilaration was abruptly replaced by something close to panic when the TIE fighter was rocked by a direct hit. His forward shield glowed a menacing blue as it absorbed the blaster fire, and Trykon tracked the shots back to their source: the now much-closer anti-air turret. He jinked his Interceptor left to avoid the steady stream of bolts coming from the base, just as a second turret opened up on him, and silently thanked the Universe that his own shields had been set to maximum front.

_You set them to front to guard against the fighters!_ a voice screamed in his mind, and, as if in response, angry red fire sizzled past his starboard wing. The X-wings were on his tail, and seemed a bit upset that Trykon had just disintegrated their friend. Without pausing to think about it, Trykon rerouted power to his rear shield, rolled his Interceptor upside-down, and pulled back hard on the yoke, the ion engines wailing as the spacefighter struggled to dive in the planet's atmosphere, a medium so very different than the the vacuum of space. As the green of the forest canopy far below filled the viewport, Trykon watched his rear sensor display.

Sure enough, the overeager enemy pilots flew right into the crossfire of their own ground-based defenses. With a grim satisfaction, Trykon watched as at least two of the X-wings were buffeted by blaster bolts. One of the craft leveled out, showing significantly reduced power, and broke formation, heading back to its base, but the other two began to mirror Trykon's Split-S maneuver, just as an alarm brought his attention back to his rapidly falling altimeter, and the solid plane of vegetation rushing up to meet his viewport.

Cursing, Trykon clutched at the control yoke, pulling up with all his strength. For tense moments the dive continued unabated, the Interceptor's control surfaces straining against the immense g-forces, until at last the wingtips began to rise. Wyl leveled out mere meters above the treetops, as red blaster bolts set fire to the trees on either side of his ship as his pursuers followed him through the dive and recovery.

In a flash, he was over the New Republic base, and then just as quickly he was beyond it, though the extra speed from his dive was steadily bleeding away. The towers around the base had stopped shooting at him for the moment, but his X-wing followers were right behind him, blasting away with a total of eight laser cannons. Warning klaxons sounded as a shot grazed his rear shield.

"Raptor Four has arrived," Trykon bit out, starting a barrel roll. "But so have two more X-wings." He spun through the maneuver, but the rebel pilots stuck with him. "I can't shake 'em."

"Four, One. Break hard right on 3. 1, 2, 3!"

Trykon didn't know what the squadron leader was planning, but he knew enough to do what he was told. He snap-rolled the Interceptor onto its right wing and pulled up as hard as he could. Before he could even check the displays, One's voice came back. "You're clear, Four. Welcome to the party."

But before Trykon could send his thanks, his shields lit up blue again, and the fighter shuddered. The ground guns were firing again. Red lights blinked in time with a new alarm as the shields failed, and despite a desperate reverse roll, one final bolt burrowed into his fighter's unprotected metal skin.

"Four is hit," Trykon said, as calmly as he could. The yoke was jumping in his hand, and he had to fight to maintain level flight. Surprisingly, nothing had shot at him for some seconds. "I think I'm out of range of the ack-ack, but I can barely maneuver," he said.

Silence. Seconds passed, as the damage report scrolled by inexorably on the main monitor. Shields were gone, and so were sensors. But communications weren't damaged. _So why is nobody talking?_

"I repeat: Four is hit, and can't steer. I'm also blind and naked. Request instructions."

Again, none of his squadron-mates answered, and again, the damage report showed no problem with communications. A quick run-through of the possibilities left one obvious conclusion: Wyl was the last surviving pilot of the entire Imperial strike force. And he was flying a damaged fighter with no hope in a dogfight.

"Glad it's a simulation, anyway," Wyl said to no one in particular. Tentatively, he tried to ease the battered Interceptor into a turn to port. The controls were heavy, but he found he could slowly change his heading. "Okay, at least I have some options other than flying level until they shoot me down," he mused.

He keyed for the overall Fleet channel: "This is Raptor Four. I'm hit, and I think the rest of the squadron and the dropships are out of the fight. Good luck."

Checking the heavy blaster pistol at his belt, he continued the wide turn back toward the New Republic base. If he could just stay aloft for long enough…

But just as the nearest turret came into view, the viewport went dark, and the controller's voice echoed in his helmet.

"Simulation ended, Crewman. Petty Officer Qorbin will debrief you."

"What do you mean, 'Simulation ended'? Don't I get to finish?"

The sim's hatch popped open, and a puzzled technician looked in on him. "You _are_ finished, pilot. X-wing got ya."

Trykon frowned. "Oh." He unstrapped and left the tech to do his job.

In the corridor, Wyl went through the exercise in his mind – one clean kill, another enemy forced to disengage, and two more he'd led into the squadron leader's ambush – not bad, all told, for his first simulator run. Besides, he'd managed to rejoin the group in what felt like a timely manner, single-handedly fighting his way through a full enemy flight, and he'd been the last man standing. And if he'd had a few more seconds, his little kamikaze run might've upped his score even more, especially if the computer calculated he would've survived the last-minute, low-altitude ejection.

When he walked into the briefing room, only Petty Officer Qorbin was there. The other trainees were either still in their sims, or long since done. Wyl idly wondered which.

"Crewman Trykon, reporting for debriefing, sir!" Wyl said, snapping to attention. The Petty Officer's expression was unreadable, and for all the pride he felt in his actions, Wyl realized that one fact remained: the mission itself had failed. Resolutely – almost defiantly – he awaited his first debriefing as a pilot in the service of the Vast Empire.


	2. Chapter 2: Change of Plans

"You have your orders, Crewman Trykon." Petty Officer Qorbin handed Wyl his new duty assignment and snapped off a dismissive salute, his amber eyes already scanning through the contents of another of the datapads piled on his desk.

Wyl swallowed in a dry throat, gazing down at the pad in his hand with a mixture of pride, doubt, and dread. "Sir," he began, but Qorbin's annoyed glare stopped him mid-sentence.

The Petty Officer's golden eyes softened a bit when they saw the new Crewman's obvious consternation. "You have a question, Crewman?"

Trykon's habitual frown deepened. "I'm not sure I understand what's going on, sir," he said carefully.

Qorbin's turn to frown. "You're transferring to the Corvette _Hammer_, under Lieutenant Firekeeper," he said in an exaggeratedly patient tone.

"Yessir," Trykon nodded, "I can see that. But," he shrugged almost imperceptibly, "shouldn't I be rotating out to one of the active TIE squadrons for further training?"

"You requested capital ship duty."

"And I'm grateful for this opportunity, sir, but—" Wyl hesitated.

"Spit it out, Crewman." The patient tone was gone. "I've got work here."

Trykon nodded again, looking miserable. "It's just that I graduated from flight school yesterday, sir. I couldn't ask for a better assignment, but I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that the VE Navy no doubt has other, more experienced pilots who could serve as the _Hammer_'s helmsman."

"Other, more experienced pilots," the Petty Officer echoed, watching the Crewman's confusion increase. Suddenly, understanding dawned. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

Qorbin exhaled. "Yesterday, during your graduation here at the Academy, the senior fleet officers sat down on Capp Station to share the ceremonial meal which closes the Annual Naval Review." Trykon nodded, and Qorbin continued: "Their food was poisoned. Something called Synox. Most of the capital ship captains are dead or dying, and even Admiral Denethor will be out of action for the foreseeable future, though they think he'll pull through. You _really_ didn't know?"

Trykon's pale face was ashen. "No sir. The Academy went on security lockdown after graduation. Of course I wondered what was going on, but my clearance wasn't high enough to ask the computer about it, and nobody told me."

"I know your classmates knew what was going on, or at least most of them did by this morning," Qorbin prompted.

"Probably," Wyl said distractedly. "I haven't really made many friends here. Yet," he added. He shook his head, as if to focus his thoughts. "So then, the more experienced fighter pilots are moving into command posts, and with my experience with capital ships, that leaves me at the _Hammer_'s helm."

The Petty Officer regarded the older Crewman. Trykon's test scores were impressive, he was a natural flyer, and there was a lot of life experience peering out of his grey-green eyes. But for all that, he hadn't made a single friend in his time at the Academy? "That's the idea, Crewman," was all he could think to say.

"Very well, sir, I'll report to the _Hammer_ right away." Trykon saluted. "I've appreciated serving under your command, sir. Good luck." He spun on his heel and strode out of the office.

Qorbin shook his head. "Good luck to you, too," he said to the empty doorway.

And with a sigh, he picked the new duty roster up, and got back to work.


	3. Chapter 3: Hammer's Head

"Sorry," Wyl muttered under his breath, absent-mindedly shouldering his way through another group of TIE pilots and continuing down the main docking corridor of Cappadocious Station. Two or three of the jostled pilots turned, bristling as if they wanted to confront Trykon, but they saw the stripes of a Senior Crewman on his duty uniform as he passed and thought better of it. Superiors in the Imperial Navy were given the benefit of the doubt, at least in public. After all, the lower-ranked TIE pilots reasoned, the Carden II-class station was nearly filled to capacity with Vast Empire personnel, all rushing to their new posts in the aftermath of the recent attack, and the occasional mid-hallway collision was inevitable. Still, the Senior Crewman hadn't audibly apologized, and it was hard not to resent rude behavior. The pilots let Trykon pass unmolested, but they grumbled quietly to each other in his wake.

Oblivious to the entire interaction, Trykon walked on, still completely focused on the datapad in his hands, programmed with his new ship's specs and duty roster, and an official copy of his orders to present to his new commanding officer.

"Report to the CR90 _Hammer_, Lieutenant Hale Firekeeper commanding, Docking Bay 7, Cappadocious Station, for duty as the ship's Helmsman," the orders read, and Wyl shook his head as he re-read them. _Helmsman_, he thought, with the same mixture of pride and apprehension he'd felt upon reading his orders the first time. _Not just one of the ship's pilots._

Duty as a ship's pilot would have been a challenge in itself, for on a corvette like the _Hammer_, a pilot had a lot more to do than a TIE jockey typically did; pilots of light capital ships had to work in concert with a copilot and an astrogator just to keep the vessel flying, and they had to synchronize their efforts with the sensor techs and gunnery crews for any precision or combat maneuvering.

But the Helmsman position would be even more challenging for the new-minted Senior Crewman, since it meant he'd be not only serving as the ship's main pilot, but also as the supervisor of the Helm and Astrogation sections. Like most capital ships, the _Hammer_ maintained three duty shifts, each with a different set of personnel, and the members of the primary shift's bridge crew were each supervisors, in charge of their departments even when not on duty themselves. For Wyl, as the ship's Helmsman, this meant two other pilots, three co-pilots, and three astrogators would all be under his direct command. Even for a man who'd once managed business ventures with interplanetary scope, the responsibility of this new assignment was sobering, coming so early in his military career.

_It's an opportunity_, Wyl reminded himself. _To distinguish yourself, one way or the other_.

A pleasant voice interrupted Wyl's thoughts: "Crewman Trykon?"

Wyl looked up, his characteristic thoughtful frown fading slightly at the sight of a sharp-featured, red-skinned, female Twi'lek smiling at him from an open doorway with a large "7" painted over it. She was wearing a Navy technician's uniform, with a Leading Crewman's insignia, her twin "brain tail" appendages draped over her shoulders, and breasts. Vaguely, Wyl was aware that he was staring.

"Yeah?" he managed to force out, finally. "Or rather, yes? I'm him. I mean, _I'm_ Senior Crewman Trykon." Wyl tried not to blush when the alien's smile broadened. _That's enough juvenile sputtering_, he told himself, and forced himself to exhale for the first time in what felt like long minutes. "Can I help you, Ms.––?"

"Brin. Leading Crewman Eslara Brin." With what looked like an effort, she suppressed her grin. "I'm the _Hammer_'s primary shift astrogator, sir. Cap'n sent me down to make sure you got on board okay."

"Ah. I see," Wyl nodded. "It's probably just as well he did. I was so busy reading, I probably would've walked right past the bay," he said, gesturing to the doorway behind her with his datapad and giving the Twi'lek a smile of his own.

She laughed, and Wyl fought another blush. "Well, I'm glad I was here, then," she said, her left brain-tail twitching. "Sir," she added quickly.

_A little flirtation is fine fun and all, but you're her supervisor_, Wyl reminded himself. _And you've got a job to do._ He glanced at the pad again, and frowned. "Right. Thank you for your help, Ms. Brin, but I should be getting aboard," he said formally.

The Twi'lek must have picked up on his shift in attitude, because she drew herself up to her full height and nodded, rather stiffly. "Yessir. If you'll follow me?" And with that she turned on her heel, and led her new section supervisor through the door to Docking Bay 7.

Wyl was considering apologizing for his abrupt change of tone when all of a sudden the _Hammer_ came into view, and everything else – his doubts, his duties, and his new astrogator crewmate – faded into the background.

He stopped short, gazing up at the 32-meters tall, 150-meters long corvette filling the bay. As a Kuati, he'd been raised to hold competitors' starship designs in contempt, but Wyl found it impossible not to admire the _Hammer_, the first Corellian CR90 he'd seen in person this close, and the first Imperial warship on which he would serve.

From outside appearances, the craft looked to be a well-maintained but fairly typical base-model CR90, with a standard drive section and weapons load-out, but Wyl knew better than to trust outside appearances. With a Corellian Corvette, there was no typical, and there was no standard. The ship the rebels called the "Blockade Runner" featured a completely modular design, and with the many upgrade suites available no two CR90s in the Galaxy were likely to have the same interior layout or capabilities. Luckily, Trykon didn't have to guess about the _Hammer_'s particular capabilities, or her deck layout; all the needed information was on his pad, and he'd already committed most of it to memory.

Still, studying a ship and seeing it up close were two different things, and Wyl had been unprepared for the emotional impact.

"Sir?"

Wyl let his gaze linger on the predatory-looking vessel a beat longer, then focused on LCRW Brin. "She's beautiful," he said.

"It's common enough for a crewer to have a love affair with his ship," the Twi'lek said wryly, "but this seems like love at first sight." She was grinning again.

Trykon returned her smile, grateful the moment of awkwardness between them had passed, but now wary of sending her any mixed signals. "Maybe," he conceded, keeping his tone carefully guarded. "Like I said, she's beautiful."

She laughed again, and he smiled reflexively. "Yes sir. That she is. Ready to come aboard?"

After a final glance upwards, Wyl nodded, and Eslara led him to the gangway: a broad ramp leading up to a pair of open blast-doors ten meters off the ground on the ship's port side, beyond which was the _Hammer_'s main storage area. Crewmen from a variety of different species were busily loading the last of the ship's provisions, and Wyl noticed with approval that the complicated operation was being accomplished with a simple, professional efficiency. _Crew seems competent,_ Wyl thought. _And they work well together, despite differences which might be... unacceptable to more traditional, bigoted Imperial commanders. Speaks volumes about the Captain._

Wyl followed LCRW Brin to the ship's central bank of lifts just outside the storage area, and they boarded the only available car, in the aft shaft. The Twi'lek pressed the button for B Deck, and Wyl found himself thinking about the _Hammer_'s commanding officer. Second Lieutenant Hale Firekeeper had been the well-respected XO of the Academy during Trykon's training period, and his transfer to command reflected how desperate the VEN was for experienced ship captains. _I will prove myself worthy of his faith in me_, Trykon resolved, _and worthy of this ship, and of this crew_.

The lift doors swished open, and Brin and Trykon exited, walking past rooms full of people hard at work. Technicians ran equipment checks, messengers darted in and out, and droids went about their inscrutable business. In a large circular room, gunners crawled into access shafts to reach the dorsal and ventral turbolaser turrets. Finally, at the end of a 10-meters long corridor, they reached the double doors which led to the corvette's bridge.

An armed guard wearing a watchman's helmet and light armor held up his hand to stop them before they could enter. "Ident cards and orders," the gruff Navy trooper demanded. The E-11 carbine he held ready spoke more eloquently than he did that he would brook no argument.

Brin seemed frightened, or possible annoyed, as she reached for her Ident, but Trykon appreciated the bridge guard's presence. The Vast Empire was at war, and its command hierarchy had just been decimated by an as-yet-unidentified assailant; security precautions were necessary and proper. Once he was satisfied with their documentation, the trooper nodded, saluted the Senior Crewman, and stepped aside. Brin keyed the door code, and walked onto the bridge, Trykon half a step behind her.

At the sound of the doors opening, Captain Firekeeper swiveled around in his central command chair, and he was standing to greet them by the time they entered the _Hammer_'s large, dimly-lit control center.

"Mr. Trykon, welcome to the _Hammer_," he said, extending his hand. His voice was warm, with the recognizably precise pronunciation indicative of Imperial Center natives, and his posture was that of a career Navy officer. But despite Captain Firekeeper's impressive bearing, there was an air of fatigue about him.

"Thank you, sir," Wyl replied, returning the man's firm handshake. "My orders, sir."

Captain Firekeeper accepted the datapad and scanned its contents. "Very well, Mr. Trykon. Take the Helm. Ms. Brin, you're at Astrogation."

Wyl strode to the pilot's station, the forward-most crew position, centered just in front of the viewport, and relieved the pilot on duty (LCRW Lerak Drackon, if the dossier pictures he'd perused were any indication). Brin strapped herself into the chair immediately to the left, and Drackon reseated himself in the copilot's position to Wyl's right.

"All station supervisors, report in. Are all crewmembers accounted for, and are all equipment and supplies loaded and stowed?" the Captain asked over the interior comm system.

Department heads reported in, in the affirmative. From the bridge crew came: "Sensors, aye," and, "Weapons and shields ready," and, "Communications standing by." Wyl checked his displays, and with a nod each from Brin and Drackon, he too reported: "Helm is at your command, sir."

Captain Firekeeper's XO spoke up: "The _Hammer_ is ready for departure. Where are we going, sir?"

"We're staying in-system for now," the corvette captain said. "Helm, set course for the Asteroid 19 training facility. When we're in position, we'll engage in some shakedown exercises. XO, the ship is yours. Come get me if anything comes up." And with that, he exited the bridge. Trykon wondered how long it'd been since the man had gotten any sleep. _In light of recent events, probably at least a couple of days_.

With the CO gone, the bridge crew got to work. Brin provided a heading to the Asteroid 19 base, and it was a simple enough task to set the _Hammer_ on course. Eventually, Wyl would have to manually guide the ship through the outer rocks of the belt, and he keyed in a request to Astro for a chart and another to Sensors for a confirmation of the rocks' current positions. But the nearest asteroid was probably 20 minutes distant, if their acceleration rate held constant, and until they got closer, the corvette would largely fly herself. Settling in to wait for his chance to prove his worth, Wyl shot a furtive glance around the bridge positions: Brin at Astrogation, and Weapons Control beyond her, Sensors behind them, his copilot sharing the Helm to his right and Defense beyond Drackon, with Communications behind _them_, and in the center, the XO sitting at Command. And Wyl himself was front-and-center. _Capital ship duty at last_, he thought.

As he deftly brought up the _Hammer_'s bow in line with their new course, despite the uncertainty of going to war against an unknown enemy, Wyl Trykon couldn't help but smile.


	4. Chapter 4: Unforeseen Challenges

Wyl Trykon gripped the control column at the CR90 _Hammer_'s helm, his knuckles white after completing the grueling journey through the asteroids of the Vectra system's belt. After almost a standard hour of precise maneuvering, twisting the corvette around the spinning rocks, they'd finally arrived at their destination.

But if the _Hammer_'s shakedown cruise to the Asteroid 19 Training Facility had been challenging so far, Wyl had no way of knowing that it was about to become downright dangerous.

Now, on their final approach to the station, an eerie quiet was all that greeted them. Long minutes went by, the _Hammer_ moving ever closer, and still, the station was silent, responding neither to authorization codes nor to direct hails. The complex of domes and connecting tunnels crisscrossing the massive space rock's surface were powered and lit, visible with the most powerful scopes, and the communications arrays on the surrounding rocks appeared undamaged as the Vast Imperial corvette slipped by them... but no one at the base was talking.

Eventually, the XO left to retrieve the Captain, and a minute later Firekeeper walked onto the bridge. "Comm, open a channel to the Facility," he said in an alert and reassuringly calm voice.

"Yes sir. Channel open."

"Asteroid 19, this is Second Lieutenant 'Rocketman,' aboard _Hammer_, requesting permission to dock."

A low voice growled back, distorted by the comm connection but unmistakably defiant: "Permission denied. Never again will Imperial scum like you board this facility."

"I see," Captain Firekeeper said dryly. He stood, and walked over to the Communications duty station. "Well then, in the name of the Vast Empire, I am placing you all under arrest on charges of piracy, sedition, and treason." He flicked a switch on the panel in front of him, and the communications link was abruptly severed.

"Sir, they're powering up their weapons grid." On scores of small, spinning rocks orbiting the main facility, point-defense laser turrets powered-up, and began tracking the corvette.

"Right. Deflector shields to maximum. Weaps, do _not_ return fire. We want to recapture the facility, not destroy it." The bridge crewers nodded their understanding. "Mr. Trykon, take us in, if you please. I'm afraid we may have to cut our way aboard."

"Yes sir," Trykon said, trying - with only limited success - to keep the fear out of his voice. He and Drackon brought the _Hammer_'s acceleration up, and Brin fed a course plot to them designed to avoid most of the now-active turrets floating at irregular intervals all around the Training Facility.

"Sound General Quarters," Firekeeper intoned.

Sirens wailed, and the crew scrambled to duty stations throughout the corvette. When all departments had reported in, the Captain called for a ship-wide channel: "This is the Captain speaking. We are about to engage the enemy. This is not a drill. Prepare for battle. Repeat: this is not a drill."

"Orders, sir?" the XO prompted.

"My orders, Ms. Hellray, are for the marines to prepare for a boarding operation. And I want a complete scan of the area, Sensors. These would-be thieves had to get to the facility somehow. If there is a ship out there somewhere, I want to know where it is."

"Aye sir."

Captain Firekeeper sent an encrypted status report back through the belt of asteroids to Abrae, and ordered the marine platoon commander to the briefing room. Just as the first blaster bolts lit up the forward shields, the CO and the XO left the bridge, to plan the ground assault necessary to retake the Training Facility. For the time being, the _Hammer_ was under the command of CPO Freedom Petty, and the ship was soon shrugging its way through a withering firestorm produced by five of the scattered laser batteries.

Despite the concerted efforts of Trykon, Drackon, and Brin to avoid the things, more and more of the anti-fighter gun platforms got a bead on the not-quite-fast-enough little capital ship, and the _Hammer_'s shields were soon hard-pressed to keep up with the sheer volume of incoming fire.

"How we doin', Defense?" Petty bit out through gritted teeth.

"Deflectors holding. For now. Heat sinks are almost at capacity though."

Wyl frowned. Once the heat dispersion systems were overwhelmed, the shields would come down in short order. And then, the hundreds of blaster bolts out there would be slamming directly into the hull. He suppressed a shudder.

Wyl guided the _Hammer_ through the final leg of the gauntlet of fire, around a twin gun emplacement and behind a crescent-shaped shard of rock slowly orbiting the main facility. Then, they were clear, and Asteroid 19's bulk suddenly filled the forward viewport.

"Sir, I have a new contact," the Crewman at the Sensor station yelled. "It's weaving its way through the belt to our position!"

"ID, Crewman?"

"No active transponder, sir. But it looks to be a frigate. _Lancer_-class. ETA, four minutes, twenty seconds."

Petty cursed, somewhat colorfully. "Alright. Trykon, I want us sidled up to the main docking port in the next minute and a half. We need to dump the troops and go."

"Sir––" Brin started to say, her tone disbelieving and distraught.

"We'll be coming back," Petty snapped. "But we have to draw that _Lancer _away, for now. It won't do us any good to retake the station if the frigate's close enough to it when we do to simply blow it into space dust."

Trykon nodded subtly to himself. The Chief Petty Officer was right. Without shields, the facility wouldn't withstand much punishment. _But then again, with our own shields in the state they're in, the _Hammer_ won't do much better_, Wyl thought. He caught Brin's look in his peripheral vision. Apparently she was thinking much the same thing.

"Captain, Petty here. We can have a hard seal with 19's main docking port in one minute, but there's a hostile _Lancer_ inbound, sir."

Rocketman's voice came back without any hesitation. "Continue with combat docking. The marines will simply have to deploy double quick. I will not permit thievery in the Navy's home system, Mr. Petty."

"Aye sir."

With mounting anxiety, Wyl rotated the _Hammer_ along its axis, bringing the ship's docking port in line with the station's, and then he tapped the maneuvering thrusters. With a palpable quiver, the docking maneuver was complete, and then a half-second later, the ship quaked as the boarding party blasted its way onto the enemy-held facility.

Wyl wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with a shaky hand, and braced himself for the frantic order to break away from the station, and fly straight into the path of the approaching frigate: a ship twice their size, bristling along its entire length with quad laser batteries.

_It's an opportunity_, Wyl tried to convince himself. _An opportunity to distinguish myself._ He frowned. _One way or the other_.


	5. Chapter 5: Victory and Loss

"Okay, Mr. Trykon, let's go," CPO Petty snapped.

With the boarding party away, the _Hammer_ was clear to engage the incoming frigate… _the frigate that dwarfs and outguns us_. Trykon brushed his doubts aside as he punched the comparatively small CR90 forward at maximum acceleration. Within seconds, the waiting laser turrets of the obstacle course which surrounded the training facility were back in view, and Wyl's shoulders tensed involuntarily, anticipating another round of intense blaster fire... but this time, the hail of bolts never came.

"The guns… They've stopped," the Crewman at Sensors said, his tone disbelieving.

"Never underestimate the efficiency of properly trained Imperial marines," Captain Firekeeper's said wryly, as he made his way from the aft door of the bridge to his command chair. "Report."

Petty stood, and the Captain slid into his seat. "No incoming fire from the facility, sir," the Chief Petty Officer said, "and if we hurry, we'll intercept that _Lancer_ inside the belt in about two and a half minutes."

"I can get us there in two, sir," Trykon interjected. In the periphery of his field of vision, the motion accentuated by her jostled red brain tails, Wyl saw Eslara snap her head around to shoot him a look, though whether it was one of admiration or disbelief he couldn't register, and he didn't have time to ask.

"I like the enthusiasm, mister. Now let's see if you can back up that claim."

"Aye sir."

One minute and fifty-four seconds later, the corvette corkscrewed through the center of a large, rotating, ring-shaped asteroid, and emerged in a relatively clear section of the belt, just as the enemy _Lancer_ entered the same open area on the opposite side. Immediately, the frigate began firing its massed quad laser cannons, and once again, the _Hammer_'s shields crackled blue, fending off this new assault of coherent energy.

"Well done, Crewman. Shields?"

"We can't take much more, Captain. Deflectors recovered a bit with the reprieve, but…" the man's voice trailed off in a kind of verbal shrug.

"Very well. Helm, Weapons, I want a full starboard broadside, and then a port turn. Hit them again with the port batteries on our way back into the belt."

A chorus of "Aye"s, and then the Bridge crew set about their work.

"Let's play hide-and-seek," Firekeeper said quietly.

As the enemy frigate continued to pour fire onto the _Hammer_, the smaller corvette's turbolaser batteries opened up in angry reply, joined brief seconds later by a spread of four concussion missiles. Savagely, the warheads exploded against the _Lancer_-class vessel's shields, one after another, but despite the vicious pounding, they stayed up.

"We hit 'em, sir, but they're still coming."

A shrill voice interrupted: "Forward deflectors failing!"

"Keep our bow away from them," the Captain warned, unnecessarily. Without shields, the bridge was dangerously exposed, and even light, anti-starfighter bolts would be enough to cripple the _Hammer_.

Trykon brought the ship around into a turn to port, making again for the cover of the asteroids. His copilot throttled back, trying to tighten up the turn, and their now-vulnerable hammerhead soon faced the approaching rocks, their stern taking the brunt of the incoming fire.

"Cancel that second broadside, Weapons. We're outmatched in the open. But not, I think, in the belt. Helm, see if you can't keep an asteroid between us and them for the next couple of minutes, if you please. Astrogation, feed our evolving course to Weapons and help plot firing solutions for the inevitable moments during which Mister Trykon fails in his task. And Trick," the Captain added, using Wyl's callsign, "casually make your way back toward the main Asteroid 19 facility. It's time we capitalized on our home field advantage."

Wyl grinned. The Captain knew what he was doing, sure enough. The _Hammer_ had incredibly accurate charts of this asteroid field, and could anticipate firing opportunities; the enemy frigate didn't, and couldn't. That would even the odds a bit. And if the hostiles didn't realize the corvette was leading them back to the training base, or if they didn't realize the base was now reoccupied by the Imperials… _This is going to be fun_, Wyl thought.

For long minutes, the deadly game of sabercat-and-mouse continued. The _Lancer_ fired almost continuously, draining its energy reserves in a frustrated and vain attempt to hit the nimble corvette as it darted in and out of cover. Brin gave Weapons timely and accurate updates, and the _Hammer_'s counter-punches were much stronger, every well-aimed volley slamming into the larger vessel. And then, they had arrived.

"Coming up on Asteroid 19, sir," Trykon reported, almost smugly.

"Communications, raise the marines. Tell them we thought they could use some gunnery practice."

The response was swift: the entire belt seemed to explode with weapons fire. The _Lancer_ chugged out of the denser part of the asteroid field, directly into a withering crossfire of blaster bolts, and actually stopped firing for a moment, as if her crew were collectively in shock.

"Helm, bring us around. Weapons, fire at will."

Wyl swung the corvette back, and the port missile batteries launched. The four concussion warheads streaked out toward the _Lancer_, and when the first two hit, the combined power proved too much for the frigate's overstressed shields, and they collapsed in a brilliant flash. The final two missiles detonated directly on the vessel's hull, and explosive decompressions rippled out from the dual impact. The laser and turbolaser fire from the facility's remote turrets and the _Hammer_ continued, until with a perceptible lurch, the _Lancer_ lost main power and stuttered to a stop, dead in space.

"Hold fire," Captain Firekeeper ordered. A few more blasts came from the point-defense turret closest to the enemy derelict before the order was relayed, and then all was quiet.

Wyl let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Brin laid a reassuring hand gently on his right shoulder, and he turned to her with a shy smile.

"Keep our bow away from them until we've got forward shields back up to minimum safe, Mister Trykon. Weapons, if he twitches, you're clear to vape him. Comms, put me through to the marines," the Captain ordered.

"Gunnery practice, he says," the holo-image of the marine CO said jovially, once the connection was established. "Well, how'd we do?"

"Just fine," Firekeeper said. "Thanks for the help. You and your troopers are to be commended. Report?"

"The Facility is secure. Nineteen enemy dead. Two captive. The power plant was rigged to blow, but we put an end to that nonsense. If you ask me, sir, it looks like amateurs."

Wyl's characteristic frown returned. _Amateurs with a_ Lancer-_class frigate as back-up?_

The Captain echoed his thoughts: "We may have won, today, troop leader, but try not to forget, we've had our share of losses this week." Everyone tried not to think about the attack on Capp Station, and the grisly deaths of so many Navy officers.

Chastised, the marine's sullen reply came back: "Aye sir."

"Was that all, troop leader?"

"Erm, no. Sorry, sir. There's a back-log of comm messages in the base's main computer. Mostly status requests, wondering why the garrison went silent, but there's a new batch, marked 'Urgent'… look to me like new orders, sir."

"Transmit the files to the _Hammer_," Firekeeper said. "Comms, I'll look them over in my suite. Chief Petty, you have the Bridge."

And with that, the Captain left, his victory secure.

CPO Petty came up behind Wyl and Eslara, and cleared his throat. The Twi'lek jerked her hand away from Trykon's shoulder, and averted her gaze, staring very hard at her duty station. Wyl suppressed a blush, and glanced up at Petty. "Sir?"

The man was smiling broadly. "Nice flying, Trick."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir." Wyl turned back to look out the main viewport, and for a moment, with Ms. Eslara Brin beside him on the bridge of an Imperial warship, he was truly happy.

The moment didn't last long. "Mister Trykon, report to the Captain's Quarters." Firekeeper sounded distracted, even over the speaker, and Wyl thought it best not to keep him waiting. But even so, as he left, he took one last look at the Bridge, and at the stars and asteroids beyond. _This is where I'm supposed to be_.

A quick jog down a hallway, a short journey down a level on the central lift, and then through another corridor, and Wyl arrived at the Captain's Suite, on C Deck. Firekeeper was waiting for him at the door. "Come in, Mister Trykon."

The room was furnished rather lavishly by Imperial standards, even for a ship's captain, but Firekeeper's words cut Wyl's appraisal of the décor short: "Two shuttles are coming out from Naval HQ on Abrae, with a replacement garrison for the base, a repair and salvage team, and some people from Intelligence. One of the shuttles is earmarked for prisoner transfer, but the other is going directly to the Ator system after it clears the belt. You're going to be on that second shuttle, Crewman."

Wyl's mouth dropped open a couple of centimeters. "Bu—Sir, I—" he sputtered.

"Orders, Crewman," the Captain said simply, handing him a datapad. "In Ator, the shuttle will return to its home vessel, the Imperial Star Destroyer _Devastator_, which will in turn take you to your new assignment."

"My new assignment," Wyl repeated, unable to mask the frustration creeping into his voice. "Sir, I just got _this_ assignment!"

"Mind your tone, Mister Trykon. You did well today, and no mistake. But that doesn't give you license to question orders."

Wyl paused, considering the compliment and the warning. _This is just another opportunity_, he reminded himself. "No sir. Sorry sir, and thanks. I'll stow my gear and be ready to go by the time the shuttle arrives." _So much for capital ship duty_, he thought glumly. _And so much for Eslara Brin_.

"Don't worry, Crewman. You'll get another crack at capital ships," the Captain said, as if reading (some of) Wyl's thoughts, "especially if I have anything to say about it." The Kuati nodded. "But for right now, the Navy wants you in an Interceptor, with the 82nd, so that's where you're going, right?" His tone was kindly.

"Right. Thank you for this opportunity, sir," Wyl said, drawing himself to attention and saluting.

Captain Firekeeper returned the salute. "Thank you, Mister Trykon. That'll be all."

Wyl turned, walked out of the suite, and paused outside the door. "Well, Nightshrike Squadron, here I come," he murmured. He trailed his fingertips along the _Hammer_'s bulkheads as he walked down the hall to his quarters, deep in thought.


End file.
